


Do You Enjoy Your Games, Death?

by BottleofInk



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Death, Family, Games, Murder, Personifications of Concepts, Siblings, Spring, Summer, Wine, a lot of wine actually, a raven - Freeform, a season, dark!Will
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-21 23:48:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1568348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BottleofInk/pseuds/BottleofInk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The fall was unremarkable. His death, subsequently, was also. So entirely unremarkable, in fact, as to be insulting – with so many killers running around, how could it be that his demise was so mundane?"</p><p>Will Graham is not all he seems, certainly not after he dies and gets back up again. But than, Will Graham never properly existed anyway.</p><p>Because Death does enjoy his games, especially now that he's himself again.</p><p>(Or: a change on the usual Hannibal-is-Death idea.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Death and His Raven

**Author's Note:**

> An idea that came to me when considering explanations, besides empathy, that would make Will so good at seeing through a killer's eyes.

The fall was unremarkable. His death, subsequently, was also. So entirely unremarkable, in fact, as to be insulting – with so many killers running around, how could it be that his demise was so _mundane_? 

Will Graham lay on the snow beneath his roof, considering the fragility of humans. His roof, he decided, was not really that high. He’d landed on snow. That death had been the result was a joke. A dismal, irritating joke.

That the afterlife, so far as he could tell, consisted of being unable to move in his silent shell of a body was an even worse joke.

He knew he was dead because he could feel where his heart should be beating, and he knew his lungs weren’t moving. And besides that, something in him just whispered it to him. In a voice remarkably like Hannibal Lecter’s. He decided, as he watched a bird fly across the sky high above – was it a raven? How odd, given the cold – that, really, the least death could’ve done for him was give him the chance to haunt Hannibal. Maybe turn the man’s milk sour, or burn his precious food. 

After a few more minutes, Will began to wonder who would find him. Would it be the good doctor himself? Will hoped his meat – and if he could have, he would’ve huffed a cynical laugh at that – went bad before then. The thought of Hannibal _eating_ him…

Is this what happened to everyone who died? Did they lay trapped in their bodies, watching the world until someone stuck them in a coffin? Did they watch even after their eyes had rotted out, trapped inside their own skulls – literally?

The raven high above abruptly nose-dived down towards Will, and if he could’ve he would’ve flinched at the suddenness of it. He half expected the bird to crash into his still chest, but just before the top of his house it slowed, and then circled lazily until it landed on the roof just above him.

It peered down at him, beady black eyes unblinking. Will, equally unblinking, though for a different reason, peered back.

Maybe the raven was Death, Will thought. Or maybe it was just a particularly strange bird.

There was a deliberate crunch of snow behind Will, where he couldn’t see. He thought it deliberate, though, because it very strongly gave that impression, as silly as that sounded.

But then, he was dead. The fact that he was still thinking was a bit silly.

“Actually,” said a perfectly normal voice (and it was oddly familiar, though Will could’ve sworn he’d never heard it before), “the raven is quite normal, aside from being immortal. And he certainly isn’t you.” 

There was a sound of fabric against snow as the body belonging to the voice knelt beside him and turned his head with one black-gloved hand.

She was tall, broad-shouldered, and tanned. Wispy white-green hair hung from a messy pony-tail. She wore a long, thick wool coat the same color as a stormy sky – which is to say, grey.

“You know,” she remarked, tapping his cheek, “I’m surprised. Normally you pick more interesting ways to die. Do you remember when you got yourself burned for being a witch? Two centuries before it was a thing.” She shook her head, a pretty smile on her lips. 

Will had no idea what was going on, and he was becoming more confused with each passing moment. He certainly didn’t remember getting himself burned alive, and as familiar as the woman’s voice was, he couldn’t, for the life of him (ha), place it.

For a few seconds the woman studied him, turning his face this way and that. He couldn’t protest, of course, or even feel it, but it was still odd.

Finally, she let go of him, letting his head fall so he was still looking up at her. She gave him a pearly grin, which looked faintly apologetic, “Sorry, I forget how particular you are.” She began fishing for something in her pocket, “I’ll never understand why you don’t just have it happen automatically. I mean really, do you like wondering about your own nature so naïvely until one of us comes along?”

She pulled a long silver flask from her pocket, “I can’t imagine it’s to protect your power. I mean, it must be terribly annoying, stuck still until someone fixes you.” She pulled out the stopper of the flask, “But to each their own, I suppose. At least you don’t require being frozen solid to come back to yourself, like Winter. I think she does it just to annoy us, really. Still hasn’t forgiven us for that prank back when we were – well, younger.” 

The woman laughed and tipped the contents of the flask into his open mouth. What flowed out of the silver container was a black thick liquid, like molasses.

It tasted, however, of earth and death and – and…

_stars._

And Will Graham begin to feel alive at the same time as that name slipped away from him, as his spine corrected itself, as his cold, stiff fingers dug into the snow – as his lungs inflated, as his heart began to shift in his chest, not quite beating, but not still any longer – 

Death sat up, licking his lips to catch a stray drop of memory and power – ah, it was Tuscany. 

“I couldn’t resist,” he told his sister, “the irony of such a death. Even if you and I were the only ones to see it. Thank you for bringing me back to myself.”

In one smooth movement, he stood and offered her his hand, noting the flowers blooming around her fur-lined boots, little forget-me-nots. Well, he wasn’t the only one who liked irony.

Spring took his hand and hoisted herself up. “No problem.” She told him, “I’ve missed you. How’s your latest game going?” She linked her arm with his as they went towards the house. Death’s raven came to land on his shoulder, nuzzling him with some affection.

“Interestingly,” said the man who had been Will Graham as he stroked the black feathers with his free hand, “allow me to tell you all about it.”

Once inside, a bottle of good wine was produced from a cupboard that didn’t contain it a few minutes before, and two old stone glasses were taken from a counter that had been previously bare. Death found himself ravenously hungry, and so some brie cheese, crackers, and grapes were collected in much the same fashion.

The two siblings set themselves up in what had been Will’s small living room. The dogs settled around them, and the raven took to the mantelpiece with a small bowl of the wine.

“Really,” Spring said, “you spoil him.”

Wine in hand, Death gave a laugh. It was different from Will Graham’s laugh, easy and free, and most importantly, _powerful_.

“He’s been without me for such a long while, I thought he deserved a treat.” Death said, in a voice that was different from Will Graham’s in much the same way as his laugh was. That it was now a little more cultured, and absurdly faintly more British, is more-or-less unimportant.

“He’s been following you this entire time.” Spring said before eating a grape. “Do you really think I’d let him stay near me? He eats my plants!” She gave a laugh too, like her brother’s.

Death took a sip of the wine, smiling in pleasure at the taste. As fun as his game was, he had missed good wine. Human stuff just wasn’t quite the same – not usually, anyway.

“So,” said Spring, “your game. Serial killers galore, I see. And illness? And a mental institution?” She looked at him curiously, “And it isn’t even you doing most of the killing.”

“I wanted a change of pace,” Death explained, “and I wanted to get close to the mortal Hannibal Lecter. He’s really rather fascinating, as humans go. Have you seen his displays?” 

Spring patted one of the dogs when it nudged her, “Yes, they’re quite inventive. Although they still don’t top the displays we used to have _dedicated_ to us. But what are you going to do now, are you going to continue as Will Graham? It doesn’t seem like you’re finished.”

“Yes,” Death said, setting aside his wine to rub his hands together – they were still a little blue. “I just wanted to even the playing field. I couldn’t predict everything, of course, certainly didn’t predict the mental institution – though it was a bit of a laugh – but I was more or less certain that by this point, being myself would be the most fun. _Now_ , you see, I can truly begin to play.” He smiled, and it was pleasant enough.

The siblings continued to drink their wine and eat their cheese, and talked well into the night. Death, with much laughter, and good-natured grinning, laid out his plan to his sister.

As they spoke, the face that had been Will Graham’s changed a little. It retained its looks, and dark hair, but something in the eyes changed, and they darkened, and something in the curve of the lips was different. For all their laughter and warm smiles, as the siblings spoke something about them seemed to speak of darkness, and battle, and harsh seasons. Their inviting warmth was not so much a lie or farce, as it was the comfortable ease of two people who knew they did not need a moment’s notice to become something entirely different.

And something entirely different was exactly what the game needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it. I admit, Will is fairly OOC once he comes back, but in subsequent chapters I hope to make him a little more like season two Will. Also, it's likely more of the shows characters will make appearances, but I didn't want to tag them prematurely.


	2. Here We Are By Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I use 'Death' and 'Will' interchangeably in reference to the character Will. I hope this doesn't confuse anyone. The use of 'Will' does tend to show up more when he's doing more, uh, Willish things.

Death dressed well. On his form, the clothes from Will Graham’s closet seemed better fitted. He wore them with easy grace and, as such, would have rivaled Hannibal’s best suit. 

In actuality, the only change he made to Will’s wardrobe before he left for his weekly meeting with Dr. Lecter was a better coat. It was a little bit of a cliché, but at least it wasn’t pure black. The jacket was wool, actually; double-breasted with glinting silver buttons (upon which, if one got close enough, tiny ravens were etched). The color was a charcoal grey.

It was long enough to billow just a little around Death’s ankles as he left Will’s house the morning after he became himself again. Spring left with him, brushing against Death as she came to stand on the front porch to survey the snow.

“If you need me,” she said, but didn’t finish the sentence. She turned and gave him an easy grin, and Death laughed. “If I need you.” He said, and swept her into a hug. “My darling sister,” he said as they parted, “could it be that you’re bored as well?”

Spring went down the steps, her boots crunching against the snow. “What, bored right before my yearly duel with our Winter? I’m too excited for boredom, brother-mine.” Around her boots sprouted green grass, a brilliant emerald against the white. “This year we’re going to battle at the bottom of that lake in Europe you like so much.”

“Of course.” Death said, “Well, best of luck.” He gave a joking half-bow, which Spring returned. “To you, as well.”

And Spring left, the grass falling under the creeping ice in a few seconds. Winter, after all, was quite stubborn.

~*~ 

The man who walked into Hannibal Lecter’s waiting room looked more like Will Graham than the man who had sipped wine from ancient stone cups the night before. Coat and easy grace aside, his eyes weren’t quite so dark. He had appearances to keep, after all.

Hannibal greeted him politely before showing him into his office. The man who was Will, but also wasn’t, returned the greeting before entering. With quick fingers he removed his long coat, dropping it into the chair before he strolled to the bookcases.

“You seem in unusually high spirits, Will. Has something good happened?” Hannibal asked, and Will cocked his head, listening to the accent. His memories returned; he could better appreciate it.

Before he turned to face the good doctor, his expression shifted slightly – the eyes guarded, the mouth caught somewhere between revulsion and appreciation. All very subtle, but necessary.

“I took a tumble.” Death said, “And found myself thinking about how fragile human life is.” He gave Will’s smirk – the edges just slightly pained. He was proud of himself for keeping the smirk right. Or as proud as Death ever got. “I found myself thinking,” he continued, before Hannibal could interrupt, “how many times you hear of people dying from perfectly simple falls.”

Hannibal took his seat, studying Will. “Perhaps fragility is what we, as humans, need to appreciate life.” He suggested.

Will huffed a laugh and sat across from Hannibal, with only a touch too much grace, his movements only a little too fluid. He studied the good Doctor – the suit, the crossed legs, the calculating expression Hannibal wasn’t bothering to conceal.

“Are you saying we wouldn’t appreciate life if we were immortal?” He asked, raising a brow. “Wouldn’t some sort of _toughness_ ,” he smirked a little at how the edge of Hannibal’s lips twitched at the word, “make life more interesting? If, say, you could survive having someone cut out your heart. What an experience that would make.”

The doctor studied him closely, just a tiny hint of something like confusion in his eyes. “Do you want someone to cut out your heart, Will?” He asked.

 _How like a therapist._ Death thought, twirling the fingers of one of his hands, which hung lazily off the armrests of the chair. “I rather like living,” he said, “so I’d rather keep my heart, if it’s all the same to you, Doctor.” He let the undercurrents of his words swim in the air for a moment – _you’re not going to eat_ me.

“Of course,” Hannibal said in that way of his, “but if you could have immortality, Will, would you seek out deaths, knowing you could come back from them? To experience them, as you said.”

 _I died in fire and ice,_ Death thought, _I let a lover drown me, just so I could rise from the river and see his fear. I am death, I do not need to seek myself. Death comes to me._

Pity he couldn’t say any of that aloud. But he had a more interesting response in mind anyway.

With slow, ragged-edged movements (move as Will, he thought), Death straightened in his chair and leaned forward. Hannibal watched, eyes alight with curiosity.

“Would you?” Death asked.

 ~*~ 

When Death got home a woman was sprawled lazily across his steps, the dogs dispersed around her. She had hair the color of a midmorning sun and skin the color of dry brown earth. She was also, in a warm sort of way, quite beautiful.

“I was sorry to hear I’d missed the festivities.” She greeted him, petting Winston’s furry head as she spoke. “All that good wine, too.”

“There’s more wine.” Death said, offering her a hand up. When she took it and stood, he used it to draw her into a hug. He could feel the heat of her skin even through his thick coat.

She wore nothing more than a strapless blue summer dress, exactly the same shade as her eyes. Or, well, her eyes right now.

“Good! Somehow, brother-mine, you’ve got the best collection of all of us. I’m still quite jealous.”

“Well, we can’t have that, Summer.” Death said, letting them into the house.

In the kitchen, the same process as before was repeated – wine where it hadn’t been, glasses where there had been none. Summer produced cold meats and cheese. It didn’t matter that outside winter winds blew, Summer radiated enough heat to bring the temperature of the house up quite nicely.

Nicely enough for cold meat and cheese, anyway.

After the two siblings had talked awhile, Death, wine glass in hand, paused. After a moment, and a sip, he said, “I have a dinner invitation for two days from now. I’m sure I could ask the host to include you.”

“Is this your doctor?” Summer asked, tilting her head. Death nodded in confirmation.

“Well, I haven’t anything to do for months yet.” A slow, wicked grin spread across her lips, “And it’s been a long time since I’ve dined with a cannibal.”

“In that case, to dinner.” Death said, and toasted.


	3. An Uneaten Heart (and Lungs Done Well)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a relatively short, uninteresting chapter. But the good news is that we're nearly finished - either the next chapter or the one after it will be the final one. I haven't quite made up my mind what will happen yet, but it should certainly prove interesting.
> 
> On a side note, in the last scene I accidentally switched tenses in the original draft. I think I managed to get it back on track (and fix the mistakes), but I might not have entirely. Apologies are offered.

During the 18th century, in Paris, a cult of moderately well-off and dreadfully bored people had captured Death.

More accurately, during the 18th century, in Paris, a well-off and dreadfully bored Death had allowed himself to be captured by a cult.

They’d called themselves something like ‘Slayers of Hades’. Some amusing and inaccurate name, as he remembered, that sounded just vaguely mysterious if you didn’t look too closely.

He’d let them kill him (and with Death, there is no such thing as being killed unwillingly). The leader, a balding man with a bad goatee and milky blue eyes, had sawn open Death’s chest as he lay (quite dramatically, naturally) across a stone table, his then-green eyes staring sightlessly (or so they thought) at the ceiling. With fat fingers, the leader had extracted Death’s red heart and announced that as he consumed it, so he gained the God’s powers.

As the cult leader had held the heart high, Death had sat up and, with deadly ease, plucked it from the man’s hand, though he shouldn’t have been able to reach. It had been almost exciting; the fear that flew across the room, the way the man had shivered as he stared at the bloodied corpse that now fit the organ back into the open cage of a chest. Death had, with a mild wince, pushed his ribs back together and watched them thread into one another until they were, once again, whole.

Even then, Death had drawn the line at his heart being eaten. Not because any power could be gained from it, but because the metaphor and the cliché were just too damn big.

So he’d eaten the cult leader’s heart instead, and announced to his followers that as he did so, he gained absolutely nothing, except an odd craving for _more_.

He’d let them run.

~*~ 

Summer wore a black silk gown for the dinner and piled her blonde hair up in a tastefully messy bun. The-man-who-had-been-Will had called ahead to confirm with Hannibal that it was alright he brought along his sister – and he had used those exact words, knowing how curious it would make the doctor (after all, Hannibal had seen Will’s file by now, and knew Will had no siblings). Hannibal, of course, had said it was perfectly fine that Will bring a guest, and that he was quite excited to meet the young woman.

And did she, pray tell, like lung?

As it happened, Summer did.

~*~

Hannibal greeted them at the door with a pleasant smile. He took their coats and led them inside graciously, exchanging pleasantries. Will, for his part, looked torn somewhere between comfort and discomfort, his eyes cycling between dark calm and edged pain.

Summer, however, was all warm, polite laughter. At Hannibal’s expression of confusion over Will’s having a sibling she explained they were friends from college.

“Closer than close,” Summer said, “siblings in all but blood is what we used to say. Well,” she laughed, clear and musical, “blood and legality. Although, my mom offered to adopt him more than once,” she offered a fond smile to Will, who stood on the edge of the conversation, studying Hannibal, “but he always politely refused. Still, he’s family all the same.”

“It is remarkable,” said Hannibal in his solemn manner, “the bonds we can craft with people beyond our blood relations. Sometimes these bonds can prove stronger than the classical definition of family.” His eyes do not flicker from Summer for a moment, but Will is aware the words are directed at him – the pointed nature of them. Death, safe in the knowledge Hannibal is not looking, smiles, all teeth. It is only for a moment, before shifting to a look of mild embarrassment.

“How true that can be, Dr. Lecter.” Summer agrees, and takes a sip of the wine doctor had poured her, a dark red that looks ever so faintly like something else in the delicate glass.

It’s a good vintage, but not nearly as good as the stock kept in either Death or Summer’s cellar. Her expression would never betray such a thing, however.

They are sitting around Hannibal’s dinner table, some Spanish dish between them and on their plates. The lung, as Death had known upon the first bite, had belonged to a twenty-year-old man named Jessie, who had been afraid when he died, and not a _particularly_ bad person (this knowledge tickles at the edges of his mind, and if he wanted he could reach out and grasp it – draw it to him, know more of Jessie, but he doesn’t).

Eating as himself is always slightly more complicated when humans are on the table.

Of course, Hannibal passed it off as beef or goat or some such. A quick and easy lie, not even terribly artful. He wasn’t even _trying._

“I must admit,” Hannibal said, after another glass of wine, “that I am surprised to meet you, Lizzy.” (how common a name, Death had thought, but indulged his sister her fancy) “Will, it seems, always has new surprises hidden up his sleeves, quite like a master magician.”

And if Will had been Will in this situation, pain and anger would have cut across his throat in equal measure – staunched uncomfortably by control and the knowledge that he was playing a long game. But Death, Death was only mildly amused. He’d been called a magician before, and a trickster and a warlock and a witch and an illusionist (and a liar and a cheat and another thousand things). As always it amused him because the person saying almost never truly knew the truth of their words. And for all his manipulation, Hannibal certainly didn’t know.

“Oh,” Summer laughed, “Will’s always been like that.” She sent another fond smile to Will – but Death caught the twinkle in her eye. “He’s rather like one of those old trick boxes, I can’t remember what they’re called exactly.” She pauses, pretending to look thoughtful, “but the ones that had hidden compartments or drawers – sometimes hidden so well you couldn’t tell they were there until they opened. Will is rather like that. You think you know what’s inside him, and then he surprises you.”

“Well,” Hannibal said and raised his glass, “this is a good surprise. A toast, to new friends, and to family.”

They drank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dislike putting OCs in stories, and almost always avoid doing so. Subsequently (and rather amusingly, given the amount of time I spend on my own novels), they often come across as one-dimensional and not well explored. I apologize if any of the OCs in this story appear so, including Will himself, given that as Death, he is rather different from canon-Will. I've tried to avoid that as best I can.
> 
> And as always, Hannibal is a wily character to write - a blending of formality with hinted ferocity. He dispenses wisdom and carefully constructed thoughts while also, around Will, hinting at his true nature.
> 
> Also, cannibal puns. I'm not good at cannibal puns, which is a serious handicap when writing Hannibal. Partly because if I were in his position, I would never make such blatant obvious remarks. I mean... in the real world, would that really work?


End file.
